


From Stars To Hardship

by HorzkaSVK



Category: Denestria, Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Demonic Possession, Demons, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Horses, Memories, Razkov Tsardom, Scars, Wolves, carnivorous horses, haha wolfie go brr, i just kinda thought someone might want to read this??, it's not that bad, russians but with horses, yay!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorzkaSVK/pseuds/HorzkaSVK
Summary: A Razkov soldier returns home.Read the notes for warnings and, well, author's notes. This is the english translation, the slovak original is linked in the notes. Toto je anglický preklad, v notes je odkaz na slovenský originál.





	From Stars To Hardship

**Author's Note:**

> don't let your expectations be too high, it'd be a shame if the story were to disappoint. the story is from a universe i and a bunch of friends are working on. Razkov is, in its own peculiar way, a thing rather dear to my heart.
> 
> tu nájdete slovenský originál: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325334
> 
> i have to bring up the most important tag for the last time: violence and blood. it's not that bad but if you're not a fan of it you may want to turn around and go about your day real fast.
> 
> enjoy the story!

The serfs’ gazes followed the foreigner in a soldier’s coat carrying a pack on her back, expecting her to get bored of marching on her own and she’ll return to ask them for a ride. They wouldn’t mind, of course – before leaving she threw Ilya in the front something, they later found out to be a silver coin. These fine exemplars of Razkov peasantry were nearly losing their minds over such a coin and so they kept their questions for themselves, content to watch the woman wading her way through the knee-high snow with fascinating ease. Once they realized she won’t be returning, Ilya murmured a command to the horse and the cart packed with fish, honey and alcohol of dubious quality started moving towards the nearest settlement.

Meanwhile, the stranger was making her way through the snow, but she had to admit that she underestimated her mountain home – snow was falling into her riding boots and mountain wind whipped her cheeks with snowflakes. She pulled the scarf around her neck and chin higher, marching onwards with resolute steps.

Midnight was approaching at its steady pace and the tired soldier took refuge in a small crease, carved into the cliffside by the ever-present wind of Saberskaya. She sat down, resting her back against the cold stone and pulling her legs closer to her chest. Her head dropped in sudden fatigue mixed with a bitter aftertaste of… disappointment, almost? What convinced her to make a lone pilgrimage into these mountains, seeking something that might not even be here? The more she pondered it, the more she cursed her desire to prove she was capable. And she didn’t even know who was she proving it to. With shaky hands she opened a clasp on her backpack and pulled out a piece of army rations, stuffing it into her mouth and slowly chewing it. She closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep, listening to a lullaby of wolves and the sharp, howling mountain wind.

Her awakening was a rough one. Her heart was racing and she was clutching her coat, almost leaving mild finger imprints in the dark leather. Forcing herself to breathe slower and trying to gather her thoughts, she made an interesting realization: quite a lot of time has passed since an awakening of this sort. Fishing out another piece of her rations, dried meat this time, and gnawed on it intently until her panicked breathing slowed down. She should press on.

The snow was forcing its way into her boots just as much as she was forcing her way through it. There was no choice other than to press on or retreat, and a soldier’s pride forbid her from doing the latter. Her march was suddenly accompanied by two more pairs of legs.

Her ears caught the sound of a mountain wolf’s almost soundless leap, but despite the predator’s grace his prey heard the leap. What followed after was not her reaction. A sudden and complete loss of control separated her from all but her eyes, watching with the curious resignation of a powerless observer. She wouldn’t be able to interfere in what was to happen next.

The hands grasping the wolf’s jaw weren’t human, that much she knew without a doubt. Whose then? Long, clawed fingers protected with hardened carmine skin tightened their hold upon the jaws and began to pull the wolf’s mouth apart in the most literal sense. Three-fingered legs braced against the snow, the fingers sinking deep and making the soldier wonder where did she get those from. She watched with the curiosity of someone who has seen their fair share of blood as the jaw muscles began to split and tear one by one. The joints dislocated and bone started to split under the immense, intense force, the wolf incapable of anything but muffled, guttural whimpers and weak twitches. What followed next was almost obvious to the soldier: the joints gave in after just a little more force in the right direction, parting with wet crackling and bloodying her fingers (if they still were hers). She could feel again, her senses returning to her along with a realization that what her separated mind perceived as aeons was in fact just a few seconds.

The soldier stood in the bloodied snow, the wolf split into two rather vague halves lying near her feet. A reminder of the fact what that transpired was real and not just a hallucination. Staring at the corpse with a vacant gaze she subconsciously reached under the fur-hemmed collar of her soldier’s coat, reaching for her scarred right shoulder with the tips of her fingers. The scars were… a keepsake of sorts, perhaps? A reminder of her involuntary stay in the prison cells of the Black Monastery. She didn’t remember much from that time, but one memory lingered about, clear as day: her first awakening.

Her back hurt in too many spots to count. Sitting up on the prison plank came with a realization: the back of her rough linen shirt was stuck to her back and she could only hope it was from the damp cell. Upon pulling it off she saw the entire back drenched in blood, fresh and dried alike. There was no doubt about it being hers and as she reached for her right scapula, she felt scarred but surprisingly well healed skin. How long was she out? Her service in the army brought her a few nasty injuries and those took their damn time to heal… Arcedal left her a parting gift: few bruises and a broken rib – yet she couldn’t feel anything, not even a scratch.

It was a remarkably stupid decision to take no weapons save for a knife tucked away at the very bottom of the pack, yet she still had to admit it wouldn’t save her anyways. No weapon would save her, except... Whatever that was. I’m not a thing, echoed a vaguely masculine voice. The soldier froze, reflexively entering a combat stance in search of an enemy. “Show yourself,” she growled through clenched teeth. I can’t. He spoke to her in whispered sentences, the words of a language unknown to her sizzling like a heated horseshoe in her mind. She understood the words’ meaning, if not the words themselves. Vague flickers, not much more than perceptions, slipped into her mind: a body protected by hardened skin of a deep bloody hue, quicksilver eyes… A crown of black horns. Her stubborn march left a trail of crimson footprints until the snow washed all the blood off her boots.

She found peace in another cliffside crease, wrapping herself up in her coat and, tired by the day’s march, fell asleep almost immediately. She dreamt one of the most vivid dreams of her life and gripped the hem of the thick soldier’s coat tighter than ever.

She was a wolf. Prowling a snowy, dreamy world and leaving footprints in snow that was not snow. At a breakneck pace she chased a misty humanoid apparition, the wolf’s body being a new experience yet at the same time the sharp senses seemed like an extension of her own. She ran onwards, fixated on a human’s scent. It was hard to determine who did it belong to, but she was determined to not let him escape. She followed the pungent trail of fear, noticing the man slowly but surely tiring himself out. A second’s hesitation almost cost him his life.

The powerful wolf legs tensed and the creature leapt forward in a perfect arc, landing on the apparition-human’s back and sinking its pearly white teeth into his shoulder. He stumbled and crashed to the ground in a heap of pain, the wolf bouncing off and rolling as it landed in the sparkly something – a weak, dreamy substitute for snow. It sprang up on its legs and with slow, deliberate steps walked onto the trembling man’s chest. Mist washed over it as it turned into a human: a tall woman with dark hair, greyish-blue eyes and the wolf’s bloodthirsty grin. „Father.“

„Long time no see... but I can’t say I miss you,“ she sighed, her lips curled in a fake, cruel smile. The feigned confidence and almost theatrical demeanor couldn’t hide her being clearly sick and tired of the man. She left him behind a long time ago and, as they say, there’s no use in beating a dead horse. She knew this as a cavalry soldier, yet there still was hatred gnawing at the corners of her soul. The time has come to excise this hatred once and for all. “What happened to you, my child?” her father whimpered, holding his bloodied shoulder with brows furrowed in pain. “I don’t know what are you speaking of,“ her eyes bored into him, grey with almost quicksilver stripes on their edges. Mist was gathering at her feet, the smallest of movements stirring it. “What happened to you?” the old Razkovan breathed out heavily and stood up on unsteady legs. He clutched the deep wound on his shoulder tightly, the mist swirling around his daughter reflecting in his wide, horrified eyes. “What happened to you? You’re not human anymore-“ A hand covered in thick, carmine skin grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off the uncertain, dreamy ground. Eyes filled with fear met an indifferent gaze of eyes lacking irises and pupils – in their place were rings of molten silver. “I was never human,” she replied in a sharp commander’s voice. The dream unreality gave it an unending echo as the fragile, unstable dream began to collapse around her.

She jerked awake and the first thing she noticed were three-toed legs the demon left her as a reminder of the dream being more than a product of her imagination. A quick, unsatisfied scowl turned them back into five-fingered human feet in riding boots. She pried open a frozen buckle on her backpack and pulled out a ration portion, quickly downing it and washing it down with a little of spiced mead from a small, handy flask. The soldier buttoned up her coat, buckled up the backpack and flung it up on her shoulders, stretching her stiff muscles. She peeked out of the crevice before slipping outside onto a fresh layer of snow.

Crouching in a small growth of coniferous trees she observed a herd of wild horses digging through the snow for anything edible they could find. It was a lesser-known fact that the mountain horses were omnivores, with differently shaped teeth and dietary preferences than their herbivore relatives. The army were attempting to catch a few to cross them with regular riding horses, but all the attempts were unsuccessful. Wild horses shouldn’t serve a human.

The herd was being circled by a pack of hungry wolves. She couldn’t understand why didn’t she notice them sooner, but right now she intently watched them approach the horses. Predators as they might be, the respect they had for the horses was not mistaken and even now they carefully considered if the horses are a suitable kill. The pack leader decided for them, jumping out the shrubbery and his wolves mounted a lightning-fast charge whose main element was surprise. The soldier didn’t hesitate and ran for the horses with a bridle in her hand.

A wolf approached the greyish mare, circling it in search of a weak spot he could use to down and kill her. She turned her rear to the wolf, providing him with the chance of a lifetime. It didn’t help him much, because a brief second later he laid on the ground with strong internal bleeding and his ribcage collapsed inwards.

The pack leader approached a smoky black stallion with few quick leaps, not forgetting his opponent was a wild horse and not a mountain goat. He aimed for the horse’s massive neck that protected his windpipe. Damaging it would most likely cripple the horse enough for the wolf to finish him off. A good idea with a weak execution – a hoof to the neck sent him crashing into the snow like a ragdoll. The stallion approached closer, but before he could grab the wolf’s neck in his mouth and end the miserable creature’s life, a crimson hand wrapped itself around his neck. The demon pressed a bit into the horse’s open mouth, slid the crownpiece of a simple bridle behind his ears and grabbed the reins tied together into one hand before jumping onto the surprised horse’s back.

The wild horse did not resist. It was surprising, but the soldier knew why: he had respect for her and her only. A light pull on the reins and deepening her seat made him rise on his back legs and the woman on his back smiled contently. She gently nudged him with her heels and he obeyed, lengthening his stride into a working trot. He plowed his way through the snow with ease, leaving behind a trail of large hoofprints. The sabersk horses turned into bewildered bystanders, watching one of their herd’s dominant stallions leave with a human on his back. The wolves who attacked their herd less than a minute ago followed the dark-haired woman as well.

Her last thought before leaving for Drevov was found by the inhabitants of a certain village written onto the cliffside. It was an interesting omen to say the least, but none of them connected it to the death of old Samyel. The village elder and its herbalist were the only two people who knew his death wasn’t natural and they swore to bury that secret along with him.

„If I have to sacrifice my humanity to serve humanity, then so be it. I was never human.“

_Avaretya Trivalovskaya is a young woman dutiful in service to her homeland, strengthened by the remorseless razkovan climate. She fights like a demon, for her body holds one._

**Author's Note:**

> it might not have been just respect.
> 
> i'll be very thankful for any and all comments - rest assured this is not the last Razkov story, the question is how long will it take me to create more.


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